Va - Addio, Stansbury
by JoSeBach
Summary: *Warning: suicide scene in the first chapter!* Since Randall plummeted in the cursed void, Hershel wasn't the same: he seemed empty, apatic, as if he himself was sinking in those darknesses... The link of my Italian version is in the notes.
1. Cremisi

**Updated. I've made few grammar mistakes and one regarding the plot. Ops, apparently an year ago I had other plans for this fanfiction, but now they changed. Sorry for that.**

**Notes: English is not my first language, so sorry for any grammar mistakes. Please review and comment, I need criticism!**

**The original link of this fanfiction is from EFP fanfiction, always wrote by me. I hope you'll enjoy this first chapter. I decided to translate it since looks like the Italian fandom does no more exist.**

**As always, I don't own Professor Layton e compagnia bella. It's Level 5's. Just deal the fact.**

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_**Hershel Layton POV**_

Not even today Angela's come at school. It's been two week of absence. Two week since... Randall's disappearance. Two week since our hands slipped because of sweat and fear. The last time I saw Angela was when I came back from Akbadain. Then, nothing: she told me what she had to say and ran to her home. Henry looked at me sympathetically, but he didn't utter a word to me. Mr Ascot... slapped me. He was going to do more if it weren't for Ma. I deserved another slap. And even more...

After some day since... the incident (that's how Ma and Pa call it) I came back at school. Staying here is killing me: my classmates speak ill of me in my back, but they don't dare to utter a word when I walk past them. If I ask anything to the teachers, they answer me unwillingly, with short sentences, an expression shows their rage and frustration for my presence, as if I'm a burden for them. I can even go in the restroom without asking! They don't react at all! I often go there, more for hiding myself: being in the classroom makes me sick. But the silence doesn't help, on the contrary, it can't stop my... regrets. Randall's fall, Angela's desperation, Mr Ascot's wrath... everything happened so fast.

If only I had been able to reason with him. If only I hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have entered in those ruins. He would have called me a killjoy, but at least Stansbury wouldn't have called me a murderer... If only I had never came here at Stansbury, there wouldn't have been all this grief. Angela is suffering more than anyone else: her parents encourage her to get married, but that love loss is too much to endure. She trusted me. I promised to protect him at any cost. Even Henry is agonising: he lost who was like a brother to him. Because of me. My par- the Laytons are suffering for my silence. If only I had managed to save him, if only I hadn't activated the trap. If only... it had been me instead of him.

Angela is right in hating me: I never poured a single tear. And now...? I'm at school, in front of the mirror and I just see a plain and pale figure, almost camouflaged with the walls, that is weeping a lot of tears.  
Preposterous.

I watch the drops falling in the sink.  
They disappeared. I want to be transparent like water.  
How much I want to die.

I don't deserve this air I'm breathing-it's Randall's and other's.

I press the razor in my hand. My fingers are bleeding, but tears are not for the pain; the tremor, the sweat and the nausea define the real reason: I'm scared.

_Idiot, you're just a coward. Do you even dare to cry for this?!_ I punish myself with a slap.  
Now there is a red mark on my cheek, more visible because of the pale skin.

Then I rise my right hand and extend the opposite arm. I start tracking some straight lines, then again and again, deeper and more accurate, more painful, as if I'm writing a testament. I'm loosing more and more blood, spilling some in the once clean room.  
It was so bright. I wonder how much time janitors take for cleaning it and for-

_Don't get distracted._

Now I focus on the other arm. It's more difficult, since the arm can't stop trembling, and with it my mind, too heavy of thoughts. I manage tracking few cuts on that arm, I want to focus on my throat. I'm tired, I'm panting, but that's not going to stop me. I rise the arm where my throat is. Yes, I must. I halt.

_What are you waiting for? Go on!_ I bring near the blade slowly. _Do a favour to the world and END YOURSELF!_

I attack the throat, instinctively. Everything is getting slower, lighter, heavier at the same time. I starve for air but I don't care: I don't own the oxygen. I leave myself victim of the external forces. I don't oppose resistance. The world is upside out and then a thump reaches on the ground. A blow on the head that shakes all the nerves. I've just reached the end. I've finished all my tears.

Surely someone has heard the blow, otherwise I can't explain those foot steps that hammer my temples. Whoever it is will find a pathetic scenario: the murderer had some guilt feelings and decided to end himself. Coward.

The shadow on the corner is shorter, showing the owner of the dark figure: Alphonse Dalston.  
He doesn't look happy, though, staring at the blood his pupils widen for the horror. He runs towards me, he doesn't stop some tears running from the corner of his eyes. He fingers my ruined whist and hears the heartbeat.

«Hershel... what have you done...»  
What are you crying for?_  
_«Hershel, can you hear me?»

I don't want to answer, but even if I want to, my body is too rigid, making every movement impossible. Other footsteps and figures are approaching-there are some students... or teachers. I can't recognize those stains in front of the door.

Alphonse turns at them. «Call an ambulance.» he says sternly.

I hear some incomprehensible buzzes coming from there.

«So?!» He takes a towel and press on the cut on the throat. Its surface is rough, it scratches the wound, causing more pain.

The figures disappear. Eyelids are heaver, the light too bright.  
«Shh... everything is going to be alright. It's going to be fixed.» That stain ensures me with the exact same words Ma told me two weeks ago, but it's pointless: the breathing is limited but stable, eyelids are falling shut. I can't make in time to hear the sirens that I lose consciousness.

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**Thanks again for reading this! 'Til next time!**


	2. Metallo splendente

_**Alphonse Dalston POV**_

Hershel bolts from the classroom as the bell rings for the first class. Ok, he's being more and more isolated skipping lessons, wanting to avoid classmates and teachers: he's used to go to the restroom staring to the doors that occasionally swing by the wind or people. But to the point to skip even the first lesson... Maybe that because, in addition of being considered as a murderer, now some teachers and students call him a psycho or maniac. Thank you so much, you're really helping him... If Randall is dead, it's surely not Hershel's fault: Randall was always the braggart that faced Physics' and conscience's rules; not by chance I called him Bratscot. But now that he's left us... everybody is sympathetic. «Poor Randall...» «He didn't deserve such an end». Even Henry keeps saying these things like a broken record. But why be sorry for such an opportunist and selfish guy, that even made cry Angela for him foolish desires? Dying in some ruins like her brother... bravo, well done. Though, is that a valid-enough justification for blaming Hershel? She could have avoided it. However, because of her influence, they arrived calling him in such names, and now some rumors tell that he killed Randall in propose for Angela, or for money, or for other stupid and unreliable motives.

Anyway after two weeks of tortures exasperation made him leave the classroom in the beginning of Maths class, his favourite subject. I asked Mr Smith if I could go see how Hershel was, but he completely avoided my request. I even asked to Ms Brown, but she answered me glaring at me frightfully, even when we wished us all a good day. Us all, maybe Randall too, but Hershel. Looks like the entire village is thirsty for his blood-

«Dalston―Collins speaks to me―could you answer my question?»  
My classmates (shameful ones) are chuckling, noting I'm blind sided: they're sure there will be a gaffe.

«I can't, sorry-»  
A bang. Something happened. Not too far. In the bathroom.  
I'm not long in coming and I stand up, ready to run through the hallways for the restroom. Reprimands aren't going to stop me.

Almost slipping, I reach the bathroom. I can barely see curled fingers covered in... blood?! At the beginning, while I'm approaching the centre of the room, I focus over marginal details: maybe my conscience is telling me to analyse one thing at a time. Or maybe for not watching the inevitable.  
But with some tears, my glare falls over the guy covered in blood, his sleeves rolled over his shoulders, his forearms completely cut and his throat wrecked. I squeeze his ruined wrist. There's still the heartbeat.

«Hershel... what have you done?» I kneel down, after grabbing a rag and I press over the deepest wound. Then I hear footsteps approaching the room: some students, or better saying morons, and Collins. Guessing by his face, mixed with rage but even concern, he seems the only one that realized the gravity of the situation. However he's motionless. Like the others: to my request of calling an ambulance, I don't see any reaction.

«So?!» I insist. Now they're running to the secretaryship. Some are staying here. Within these, there is Josh, that thinks Hershel as a killer and responsible of his cat's disappearance, Robin.  
He has an hollow glare, more than ever-his eyelids are immobile, letting his eyes to explore the surroundings. His mouth is falling, the chin following suit, letting some air entering in his mouth and making impossible any sound. What a jerk. But my glare is focused on Hershel. Exasperation brought him to this?  
«Everything will be alright...» I assure him even if, if I'm not believing it, how can I make him believe it? His face is dirty only with blood. His eyes are empty, lifeless. The eyelids are falling, covering the hollow. Before I utter a scream, I realize there's still the heartbeat. Breaths are weak, but they are.

Help has reached the scene immediately, right after the teacher's call. Likewise, they've taken Hershel and they've disappeared. Now I find myself with the shirt and the hands wet by blood. I identify the weapon, simply recognizable by its clear, shiny and sharp surface: a razor. My amount of courage isn't enough for dealing with that tool, so I push it toward the still clean corner with the edge of my shoe. I feel myself as empty as the eyes of those that pass away. What if he's like them? What if-

A hand reaches my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. I turn my head toward the man: Mr Collins. He's obviously shocked: he has nothing against Hershel, maybe a bit of disappointment, but no else. Thought he never tried to console him. At least I've tried, even if he never answered me. He just distanced.

«Dalston, I ask you a favour. Tell me you'll do it.»

«But what-»

«First say yes.»

I answer reluctant. «Shoot.»

«I can't leave school's facilities: I have students to take care of.» I can hear the roar caused by too many students asking explanations. «But I know I can trust you...―he continued―So go to the Laytons and tell them what happened.»

I watch him in the eyes. I can see his incredulity for the events that occured in the last few minutes. I mean, it was almost obvious it was about to happen after Angela's silly conversation, but I've always tried to deny it, in vain. What is the teacher thinking? And the Laytons? How are they going to react? But I can't stand back now. They deserve to know. «I'll go right away.»

With a gesture with the head, the teacher wishes me good luck. Likewise with a wave with the hand, I run in the hallways toward the exit.  
I run, passing beyond the school gates. Someone is calling me back, maybe a student or a teacher unaware of the events, but I do not care. I knock frantically on their door. I don't know what and how to say it properly. Before I could prepare psychologically, Mrs Layton opens the door. Those bags under her eyes are obvious. The wrinkles make her impossible to hide her concerns.

«Alphonse? Shouldn't y- My word, what happened to you?» Her eyes open wide for horror toward the crimson liquid on my shirt.

«Hershel is in the hospital.»

Her face tenses, as if wrinkles are fighting with each other. But the eyes don't know what to do in the predicament. She's really worried, but tries to at least sound collected by the voice.

«Alphonse. What happened?»

I hesitate. «… I don't know.» I try to fabricate something as an excuse, but she doesn't ask me the whole story. There is no time. As fast as the wind, she calls aloud the husband. Meanwhile, she takes the jacket and the cap. From upstairs I see approaching Mr Layton. He doesn't look less concerned.

«Lucille, what's wrong?»

«Roland, we have to go to the hospital.»

«Why? Are you not feeling well?―Then, noting my presence near the door―And what's doing Dalston here?»

«I'll explain later, dear. Now, let's go.» She throws him the keys. «Alphonse, come with us.»

I just nod and follow them toward the automobile. I get in the car. Noticing the frightened glare from Lucille, I zip up the jacket, hiding the crimson stain on the shirt. It appears to have made her a little calmer, but I guess it's just a feeling of mine.

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**Sorry for being so late in publishing, but school and family know how to keep me busy.**  
**Please, I need reviews and criticism.**


	3. Bianco candido

**Alphonse Dalston POV**

For 10 minutes, silence has been ruling over the situation: Mrs Layton, worried, has decided 2 minutes ago to rest, ending sleeping. Mr Layton is driving, watching carefully the road. I still can't fathom these two, despite their age, are still this awake... There are half hour left for arriving to the hospital. Before I could utter a word, Roland surpassed me.

«So, what happened?»

I hesitate-I'm not sure which is the proper approach. Every word must be evaluate correctly, especially in such a predicament. «I don't know exactly, but I guess I've figured it out.»

«Then may I ask some questions?»

«Sure.» I'm afraid of what he's going to ask.

«Whose is that blood?»

«... Hershel's.»

«Hershel?!―he utters―The hell-»

«Please, Mr Layton. Now I'll explain everything... at least what I can guess.» Which is the only possibility...

I notice the concern of the father that drums his fingerprints on the steering wheel. Instead of easing the pressure, it magnifies it.

«Well...―I hesitate―He attempted suicide.»

The man is suspiciously quiet, processing those harsh words. Those sounds have materialized themselves in lead gems in the old man's stomach, making his eyes wide, now vulnerable from the sun. His lips are partially parted. The bear is no longer protecting them, in trap. He must have realized it.

«Tell me. What he did... exactly?» He's afraid of the answer, but I can't lie to him.

«He cut his throat with a razor.» I answer trying not to listen to my own words, or else it would be impossible for me talking. I see shiny and wet eyes, as if they are full of...

«This morning I've even asked where the razor was. I've searched it everywhere, yet...―here's a sob―Why pushing himself that far?»

«Well, Angela surely didn't help making the situation better.» I think aloud, not even realizing. Roland snaps. The princess' name has taken his attention.

«Angela? What did she do?» his voice stern.

«When Hershel came back from the ruins...» I want the silence to answer instead of me, but Roland's eyes prohibit it. I continue. «She told him... unpleasant words.»

The car suddenly stops. If it hadn't been for the seat belt, my face would have been mashed up the windscreen. Luckily Mrs Layton is snoring, unaware of the topic of the discussion. In the silence Roland sends me a pleading glare, as if he hopes he's mistaking. So he's asked away.

«And what?»

«That... it's his fault if Randall... disappeared and... he had to die instead of him.»

The cabin doesn't give access to fresh air, suffocating us in a solemn, and almost grief, silence. But Lucille rouses us from worry by her loud snores. Mr Layton is upset: surely he didn't want that answer. But I can deduce he expected that.

«We'll reach the hospital and when the surgery will be over, we'll leave Lucille there. Then... we two are going to come back to Stansbury. I want to make that snotty girl realize that words are sharper than... swords.» He's said the last word softly: Roland doesn't look so convinced. He's not a vengeful man, but it's quite understandable if he snaps sometimes. Maybe that's not a clement plan, but she needs a lesson.

In 10 minutes we arrive to the destination. The squeak of the brake has risen Lucille from the image of baby Hershel in her arms (I've heard her talking in the sleep). _Poor thing..._

«Let's go!» One of them exclaims. I follow them suit and we run to the entrance, where we've been granted by an assistant. She's dressed with a snow white woman shirt, resembling the sterility and their acid smell. Simple, almost anonymous, features.

«Greetings, sirs. How may I help you?»

Roland glares his partner that is suffocated by tears. He embraces her with his right arm, squeezing with his hand hers.

«We're looking for a patient who was brought here some hours ago, Hershel Layton.»

The woman rummage through the many folders, finding the one with the **L**. From that she pulls out an already written, but not completely, form. Roland is still trying to soothe the grief his wife is going through, assuring her their son is fine. The assistant, uncaring, communicates the news.

«The patient is still under surgery. In 10 minutes it will be over. His room is the 289 one.»

We sit down on the uncomfortable blue bench, but we don't think too much of the pain in the back by the lack of ergonomics. Lucille's eyes are still wet, Roland is busy consoling her, while my mouth lacks of saliva, preventing me for distracting those two with unrelated conversations. Silence's suffocated us for what seems like years.  
I notice a young lady, thirty or younger, that, guessing by her white coat, her hat and the nameplate I would say a nurse, starts a conversation with the assistant. The latter, understanding the question of the first, points the index finger to us. So the nurse-or-else approaches toward us. The two Laytons notice her presence when she was few steps far from us.

«You're the Laytons, aren't you?»

They merely nod. Then she sends me a perplexed glare.

«And you are...?»

«Hershel's friend.» I answer instantly. Maybe the Laytons don't, but I do still have some hope.

«OK, you can come. I bring you to his room.»

The spouses don't utter a word. Roland just follows her. The young lady helps Lucille in standing up and with the many flights. Lucille is not like once that, even though her age, she was so lively. While we climb up the steps, the nurse informs us Hershel's situation.

«He's lost a lot of blood, but fortunately we've arrived in time. That boy really risked a lot...» silence talks instead of words.

We reach the door with those number on the front. 289. I let Laytons open the door. They are unsure of doing so, but they've turned the handle nonetheless.  
The 289 room isn't that different from the previous ones, such as 285, 245, 167 and so on: same sterilised colour, same alcohol smell. Hershel is lay motionless on a gurney and enveloped in the same and identical clean white blankets. With these, some bandages are embracing the most vulnerable area, where the bleeding is still visible. His face is completely blank, without emotions, maybe because of the breathing mask, or it's just an idea of mine like that it reminds me the face of a cadaver. But the rhythm made by the near machine and the normal waves on the screen unmask this possibility.

Lucille immediately runs toward her child, gripping his cicatrized hand for making him feel her presence. Or the opposite? She squeezes, caresses, kisses his hand, almost hoping to make that wound disappear, the wound that wasn't there until this morning.

«Darling―she says, as if her words can reach him―I'm here. There will be no more suffering. Everything will be alright.»

Noticing her tiredness, Roland places near her an armchair from the corner. She sits down, not leaving her grip with Hershel's hand. She doesn't dare.

«Is his life still in danger?» Lucille asks the nurse that is about to leave the room.

«Not anymore. As I said before we arrived in time. Now we have to wait he regains consciousness.―expecting the next question―It should happen tomorrow, if anything the following day, but it can be today... Keep a close eye on him, though: I don't know his mental stability.»

Lucille has no more questions. She just hopes this nightmare ends (I know it by her face). Roland tells her in the ear we are going to Stansbury.

«We will be right back. Don't worry, honey.»

«What are you going to do?» she asks him worried. I think she doesn't want to know but she can't help but ask: she doesn't want secrets.

«I'll tell the folks the situation. Relax, honey. If you want I can stay-»

«No no. Don't worry about me.―her lips curl a comforting smile―Take your time.» We exchange her relief: now Hershel is out of danger, at least.

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**I've made it in time! I hope you'll like this chapter. As always sorry for my English and bla bla bla...**  
**Anyway, please, review, if you can.**

**E... buona festa delle donne!**


	4. Buio pesto

** Hershel Layton POV **

A high tide of darkness and fear hit us, startling me and... Randall...

_I can't see this scene again. It pains too much. Stop. But the events just go on unstoppable in the back of my eyelids._

I'm on the threshold of my strength, other than of the cliff that separates the world of living and the other world. Randall is suspended in the latter, though, still grabbed on my fingers, defenceless, his eyes wide for the first time in his whole life. The regret swallows his stomach, gripping his heart and lungs. His falling mouth tries to reach the few spared oxygen molecule from the ruins, letting out tonnes of panic that are taking place in this thoughts and worries. Maybe it's the first time I've seen Randall so vulnerable.

His fingers envelope mine in a dead grip, while the other hand is busy with the golden happy mask. The only smile that hasn't lost hope but is without a soul.

I pull as much as I can for rescuing him, tensing my muscles' arm with all my might, with the one of the thorax, reaching off to a nearby limestone rock. Despite my efforts and pleas, Randall seems passive to the gravity force. _He doesn't even try once for saving his life..._

_Wait..._

«Randall! Come on! Give me your other hand!»

He rises the mask and puts it over his face... I just don't remember this scene... He sends ma a glare: his hollow eyes give me chills, his mocking grin provokes and gets me rattled. It's not the moments for jokes!

«You've turned on the trap...―the mouth, with the whole body, trembles in a deranged laugh full of hysteria―YOU! Funny, right? You and your prudence! Look where you've put me into!»

His laughter causes vibrations that are amplifying the fatigue, tugging me left and right. I barely manage to keep the grip. His nails pierce in the flesh that is connecting us, almost making it bleeding. His voice is even more gloomy and challenging. «And now you do dare giving me orders, because you want always to be right. You want to be the hero. Bring it on-»

«Stop! Just give me the hand!» Panic gets the better on me.

But just when words have left my lips, those needles have traced several hot blood stripes. Randall plummets, inspects my soul, the imago mortis worn by his face, suiting it perfectly. The laugh bounces on the sides even after the disappearance of the figure swallowed by the blackest void. Sweat covers my whole body but the mouth. I feel I should scream, but I can't utter any sound. I pant searching relax in vain, just making my metabolism and mind even weaker. I can sense a presence in my back. Quiet. _And yet I know there were only us two in the ruins._ The shadow cast on me is quite familiar: feminine features, weak and young build, short hair frame her face with two curled- Wait, Angela!?

I turn for denying my theory. But it's her. Her glare is blank, not too far from the mask's one. Her face is firm. As if she's not even breathing.

_But I'm damned sure she wasn't-_

«You promised me.» Her face is homogeneous, letting no feelings and thoughts betray her features and demeanour. I remember the vow drew that night, and I did everything for it: I did deal with the most dangerous puzzles, the mechanical mummies-

«You had to protect him by any cost.―only her voice reminds the disappointment, betrayed by the friend whom trusted―you could've saved him.» _Hershel, this is just a dream. Inhale with the nose, exhale with the mouth, in, out, in, out... WHY DOESN'T IT STOP?!_

She approaches, the growing shadow overwhelms me. «It's all your fault.»

I try to persuade me, convincing me of the dreamlike, unlikely and deranged nature of the scene, but the pain and regret reminds me that it's all true. These are sensations which I felt and seems even dream world doesn't prevent the guilt. Her figure hides even the last slightest ray of light. With the few strength I've left, too less for my vital functions, it's impossible for me to answer her accusations, even less to stand up and face her. I'm laid on the ground, my back placed on the limestone rock. My hands palpitate in pain and scorch for the wounds, arm tore up for the weight once carried, lungs pained for the exertion, mouth shut for remorse. She's right. If I'd been more strong... If I'd stopped him...

I sense her delicate hands push my dislocate shoulder toward the chasm. Azran catacomb.

«You.» She presses, no resistance stopping her. Angst opens wide my eyes, hysteria dwells against my rationality.

_That's impossible- I'M DREAMING, NONE OF THIS IS REAL! ANGELA WAS NOT WITH US, SHE COULDN'T, RANDALL TRIED TO RESCUE HIMSELF, HE ASKED TO TELL ANGELA AND HIS FAMILY EVERYTHING AND TO LET HIM GO- And yet everything seems so real, too real. What should I do?_

«You.―She has no mercy, her eyes confirm it― YOU KILLED HIM!»

Uttering the last syllable, my body soars on the air, deforming itself. The figure of Angela is always smaller, getting lost in the ruins darkness. I haven't the strength for going against the fall. Not for the closing trachea that prevents breathing. I still hear Randall's ghost's laughters that are going to plague me for my entire life. Maybe even in afterlife.

Air roars in my ears until a thud indicates I've reached the bottom. My skull crashed, the substance responsible of my mind completely disembowel. Is my heart beat frantic or non existent? From the half-closed eyelids I peer a low-defined figure, but that vile smirk makes me realize its identity. It comes closer. It watches me with a moronic glare. Its stupid snigger reaches my miraculously unharmed eardrums. It increases in a deranged laughter for darker amusement. The figure trembles frantically, out of mind. Then, assuage itself, it raises its leg, ready to mash my head with the right sole. It has no pity. I don't deserve it.

In the impact, the darkness brings me in another world. Eyelids are still too heavy for being able to raise them, like the thorax and the fingers. I clean my mind and analyse the surrounding with hearing: I hear a regular mechanical tone. Maybe synchronized to my heart? A hand is holding mine. Despite the firm grip, it doesn't provoke pain, regret or guilt, instead it gives me safety.

I'm still here. Sadly.

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**I wrote this in one afternoon and I'm quite satisfied how it turned out. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. The confrontation with Angela was planned for the 4th chapter, but I prefer to publish this part first. Please, review. I need them.**


	5. Senza titolo

** Hershel Layton POV **

I lift my eyelids, finding myself staring at the ceiling. Its pallor is similar to mine, if not identical. Its stiffness is in common with my muscles that don't want to obey my orders.

As well as lungs: how much I want them stop me breath, but then the diaphragm rocks, giving me deep breaths.

As well as the heart: how much I want to cease the beat in order to hear the silence from that exhausting and monotonous tone, but that will stay a desire. And I believed I've gotten rid of enough blood for stopping the machine, though.

Even that time I'd asked, prayed, begged to my hand to keep the grip, but then the sweat forbid the positive accomplishment of the order, ruining efforts and hope.

A domino tile fallen in the wrong way, a castle once made with triangles turned out in stacks of cards. Causality is a perfect machine and a parasite: without men's tragedies it will be useless. Its only goal is to lead people to insanity with the simplest yet highest logic. And it's doing well its job.

A hand presses my fatal one with a sudden strength, provoking me immense pain. A yell escapes from my toothed wall, waking up the at first immobile obscure figure, then easily recognisable and familiar.

«Ma» is all I can utter.

In her eyes is visible the joy... _wait, fake?_ I don't know how to describe it. If she wants to pretend happiness, that's not as perfect as causality. This disappears at the sight of my frown, making her mimic my expression. I stare at the cuts hidden by some bandages that have a tight grip in my skin. Hiding the injuries is useless. Her gaze follows mine, mimicking ironically my doubts.

«What's wrong, deary?―she asks, mocking me―Does it still hurts?»

Not receiving an answer, she decides to test it by herself, pushing with an unlikely strength for a woman of her age over the bandages. These corrode the skin and the flesh that comes back to life spilling the crimson nourishment. The yell for the pain can't be helped and the fingers writhe looking for a distraction.

More adrenaline, faster beat. Blood over flows. Starving of oxygen, making more adrenaline and so on, deforming in a fatal spiral, surrounding my hope in a eliminatory grip.

But rebellion is an innate and invincible instinct. A guardian which throws itself in the crowd forward the liberty. It's fed mainly with blood loss and eats scandals, rumours, paranoia, the worst curse of fear. Fear of ourselves, of the neighbour, of the world, of the reality.

The impulse takes my mind and my actions, it flows in my blood, now in my muscles, in the heart that, maybe for masochism, speeds the engine. The convulsions cause on the joints some red stripes and makes the bones pain because of _chains-_

_Wait a minute. Did I just say chains?_

The wrists are molten with the freezing rings linked with the lateral bars of the bed, keeping me in a pentagonal deformable but indestructible position. How do I know? I just do.

The woman with blurred white hair turns toward the door, letting enter the hosts which just gently knocked. With a lot of care (curse on you, attention!) she turns the handle and the door makes the guests come in the room with their gift: the awareness. The crowd is full of thousands of familiar and known faces: Mr Ascot, Angela, Henry and the golden worthless face. Lucille doesn't seem upset, despite the presence of the first should arise to her anger and repugnance, the man who dared to give a slap-

«So you arrived, finally.» She smiles maliciously, turning toward me. The other follow suit.

I toss and turn, causing more pain, implicating more panic and instigate the instinct to esc-

_I'm in trap again. No, not again...!_

_NonoNoNOOoonoNO!_

They approach. There are no obstacles stopping the advance, but time doesn't give them hurry. The collision between the soles and the floor increases of speed, together with my heartbeat. Hands over my ears. Eyes closed shut. But my senses pass through the imaginary barrier.

_Or is it just in my mind? Maybe I should listen to my thoug-_

_Stop. STOP!_

I can't utter a word, my vocal chords too tense, too thin breaths. I'm starving of air. Lucille on my left, Mr Ascot on the opposite side and the Man with his lady in front of me, their fingers fused together, the rings source of the light ray which is blinding me occasionally. Until the light bulbs burn out and the roller shutter is in free fall.

Now the darkness is killing me, traitor. I hear a laughter coming from the golden shapes which are sorrounding a black area, mistakable with the background. She is in front of me, now murmuring in my ears.

«What goes around comes around.»

* * *

**I know, this was pretty short, actually. I'm sorry: I guess this will be the shortest other than the worst and the most useless chapter in the whole world. I was supposed to write a chapter regarding Roland, Alphonse and Angela, but I'm not feeling well recently and school is keeping me even more busy. So sorry. I'm going to write more and better, I promise.**

**The last sentence in English sounds lame respect to the Italian version _Chi la fa, l'aspetti_.**

**Anyway always thank you for anyone who takes time reading and commenting reviewing.**


	6. Oro angelico

_ Alphonse Dalston POV _

Like the way to the hospital, the reentry in Stansbury is silent, but not without wide eyes, full or wrath and revenge. If I weren't with him now, I wouldn't imagine that such a situation can trouble the man so much. I mean, I understand him wholly, I can't deny that; it's just that I find it difficult to see him so upset. The must love so much his son and his wife for being able to hide all his preoccupations, for not infect her, already worried sick.

The driver turns to me, sending me a tired look.

«Do you know where does she live?»

«Yes. I lead the way.»

Drawing kilometre per kilometre, we reach the small house, as she calls it, just because she confronts hers with the Bratscot villa. And they even think to waste their time bragging their parents' properties and playing the "adventurers". Well, look where we've ended up because of your childishness, morons!

We get out the car and close the car doors together. In the same way we reach the entrance, where a good-looking named Foster doorbell invites us to ring. But we prefer to knock directly. The big hand hits the door repeatedly, but not too much giving concerns and not too few for not hearing it. Then there are some noisy steps. Heels. It must be Mrs Foster.

The lady makes us wait for just a minute, maybe she was already near the entrance. At any rate she opens the door inadvertently: in the exact moment she glimpses the quests, her smile falters. But it's too late for thinking over it: Mr Layton places the foot in the small opening and then the hand on the door, opening it wide at 120 degrees. The lady pulls back, feeling threatened.

«What do you want?» her voice is tense. But is she aware of what Angela did?

«I want to speak to Angela.»

«She's not at home-»

«Mr Layton,―I point the index finger to the stairs―this way.»

Roland follows me, not paying attention to the lady's threats.

«YOU ARE IN A PRIVATE PROPERTY! I CALL THE POLICE!» But she doesn't rush for the nearest phone, no: she follows us, trying to stop Roland's fury in vain. Then she thinks of reaching before us the entrance for Angela's bedroom, where she's been hiding for all these weeks. How many times I've tried to make her going out without success. I hope this is the right time. The big man reaches the lady and doesn't hesitate to knock to the locked up door.

«Come out, Angela!»

The lady tries to stop him hanging on the arms. But the strength owned by that lively old man shouldn't be underestimated: in fact, her attempts are useless. Again.

The only answer we can receive from the other end is a series made by laments and tears. Then we pick up words. Despite the hoarse and dry voice and the door thickness, we can decode the sounds syntactically.

«L-leave me...» and sobs.

«You heard her?!―the harpy objects―leave my daughter alone!»

Mr Layton moves from the door with Mrs Foster, letting me act.

I continue to knock.

«What have I just-»

«I don't care! Open this bloody door this instant, Angela! You cannot run from your responsibilities!»

«W-what are you talking about?! I did n-nothing.»

«Don't lie to yourself. You know exactly what I'm referring to!»

Sobs stop and a sympathetic silence is preserved even by the two adults that turn toward the door after hearing some steps approaching. Flat and almost stealthy steps. Bare foot. The door opens slowly, but we are patient.

In these weeks locked up in the most utter reclusion, surely she hadn't thought about care: seeing the fact that all the mirrors are shattered, she should not be aware of her aspect, but looks like she doesn't care. Angela is in poor condition: the hair, once reflecting the sun light, now is off, a bit dirty by some drops of dry blood, her face no more shining as before, with eyes framed by ruby veins and surrounded by tar rings. The hands have tiny cuts but, judging by the dimensions and by the almost-complete scaring, they're just light incisions caused by glass splinter lying in the bottom of the room and in the bathroom. I hope she will not get 7 years of misfortune...

I wonder if she had destroyed at least one when she'd found out of the... disap- no, death of her brother. I still remember that she hid herself in her room for days and days... Since then, she had never joined the games Randall suggested that involved archaeology... How did he never find out the motive? He, the one who resolved puzzles with the most unthinkable solutions. Couldn't he quit archaeology? If not for himself, at least for love? For that girl who for desperation said the most unthinkable accusation? But no matter how unthinkable, I'm sure she's aware that's not the right answer of the enigma...

First thing the mother does is reaching her with a consolatory hug: she clings to her almost throttling her, kisses the forehead as for reanimating the daughter and brushes her hair with the right hand, caressing then the wet cheek.

«Darling, shhh―she assures her―everything will be alright. I'm here. No one will hurt you...»

But the girl doesn't reply: her face and eyes not that far from the one I've seen this morning in the almost-corpse. The mother release the grip and examine her with attention. Her worry is as clear as the day. Worry that turns into frustration.

«Hey. Look in my eyes.» but she doesn't. She's listening to her, but no word can hurt her any more, dead inside because of else rather than words. At least they full, they don't take away anything. «Do you answer me?!» according the instinct of the impatient, she shoots her 5 fingers, staining her cheek red. With the same silence, Angela lets a tear running in wound's help.

Mr Layton shields her pulling her close, fatherly instinct prevailing over him: even if this first ostensible hatred in her behalf, he can't let someone else suffer.

«What DO YOU want, Layton?» The woman assails him, the Foster ready to deal with him after the previous retreat. But Roland doesn't seem willing to hurt her, on the contrary, he doesn't even dare touching slightly.

«Mrs Foster-»

«Shut up!» She rushes toward the daughter and grasp her from the wrist, the mere resistance made by a dead burden. «Since you'd stepped your foot here you did nothing but making problems! You can't even manage raise that bast-»

«That's not tr-»

«Rather, murdered!»

«Agatha!» The tension breaks the formality, the latter a vulnerable soap bubble. The Layton's voice is raspy, dry, his facet writhed by the dismay and torture those words provoked him.

I turn to Angela, apparently unperturbed. But a pained face is not necessary for letting a tear slide. I approach, grab her carefully from the arm and bring her out from the asphyxiating room.

Taking her along the hallway, I realize Angela stares on me. Then I feel her grasp gripping my wrist, watercolour irises. I cares the tense fingers and bring her to Mrs Foster's room, in order to let her organize herself calmly. I open the door, enough for letting one go through. I don't make in time to open my mouth that another pair of lips mimic the sounds to form, the voice empty, not used to talk any more.

«What happened to Hershel?»

«You'll know when we're in the hospital.»

She dons a puzzled expression. «But what has he done-»

«Explaining it is pointless. After all, I'm quite positive you've already figured out.»

Her face crumples, the too-heavy eyebrows press the eyelids, slightly stretching out the forehead. The delicate fingers hasten to the again-empty-of-words mouth. Eyes closed but not enough for preventing the cold water flowing from running. Yes, she knows the bitter truth. Rapidly she reaches the restroom, separated from the main room by a door, now locked up.

I approach the entry door, inspecting the whole room. Agatha's bedroom is extremely neat and spacious, not as much as my father's but surely more refined: the furnitures are lavish and expensive, not basic and spartan that I'm used to see... The nearly invisible dust veil on the shelves makes me realize Agatha is not a book lover on the contrary of those _Lepisma saccharina_ that swim between the now ruined fingerprint-free pages. Culture is so superficial to superficial minds. The bed is perfectly ironed and impeccable. Surely it weren't the hands owned by a boor the ones that tided the bed sheets, removed the cobwebs- Who fed Angela? Surely not her mother, that was more likely waiting her in the good-looking living room with a teacup filled with Oasis Berry and some biscuits on the coffee table. What a respectable mother. Now I know where Angela's arrogance we're almost used comes from. Non everything we're used to is good, after all.

I hear some steps approaching: heavy and masculine and others little and really annoying. Roland and that pesky Agatha are coming in the latter's room, but for preserving Angela I meet them halfway. Then, silently but not without insolent glares, we let the girl prepare herself.

But she's not long in coming: in a quarter of hour from the doorstep the apparently-ordinary Angela appears: orange sweater, pale waistcoat, brown skirt... But there is no trace of her naive smile, along her eyes, always blossoming at the sight of those thick and useless black glasses.

Her naivety has been destroyed once and for all by the responsible of all the problems of her life, firstly taking away simon, her brother, then Randall, her love. I'm talking about archaeology: maybe the first victim is inexorable, being too inexperienced, reckless, not aware of the risks. But Randall was well aware of the dangers and, despite the love that linked him with Angela, he fell in temptation, hoping he could bring home gold, discipline pride; maybe it was a way to preserve the study of the old from its faults and introduce Angela in the world of sheet, rocks and coal, death stuff. But as its proselytes would say, _History teaches_. Yes, but looks like humans is not willing to learn, too proud for submitting causality's rules.

Now I recall Angela's face twisted by the tears during that night: I haven't understood clearly what happened, given that Hershel didn't manage to explain it in time, but I've taken Angela running with a mask in hand. Some archaeological bullshit.

* * *

Sorry for the hiatus, but it wasn't my intention to leave this fanfiction open for 2 months, but life happened. At least I'm here again, school is almost over (you can notice the chapter is quite longer). I'm just worried for Physics (sorry Claire, but I just can't make it). I'm eager to see critiques and mistakes I've made so far. I'm sorry for being really repetitive, I must adjust it.


	7. Trasparente

_Lucille Maxwell in Layton POV_

In my youth I've never dedicated proper attention to sadness, maybe because of my job that never required me such an effort.

I worked as a photographer and all day I had to shoot wonderful landscapes and earn money for a basic life of a young single woman.

The first time I felt a shiver running down my spine was when the boss appointed me to collaborate with the journalist Arthur Layton, from crime news, shooting the broken window of a crime scene. I was so disgusted I felt sick by barely smelling the stench of rotten flesh and hearing flies' dances.  
Figure when I've seen the corpse...  
From that moment I've remembered death's existence. But I've never thought it could brush against a youngster, after all that corpse was once owned by a middle-aged broken man. Youngsters should be carefree, they deserve all the happiness of this world.

Then why, Hershel?

He's there, trapped in an immobile body that lies on a gurney enveloped in snow white blanket. Only when Roland and Alphonse leave the room, despite the excessive light mirrored by the walls, only then I notice the cuts that cover the arms, the palms and... the throat.

That's true, I'd already seen a corpse, even disembowel, his lap cut by blood forming digits, made by the creditor that wanted to be paid through a sadistic game.  
His debt. But these wounds, Hershel's, made by himself, what do they mean? A 17-years-old that should be at school, thinking of the future, maybe some arguments with us... But he owes nothing to no one.

His apathetic smile might makes one think he's just resting. But he's not. He's not the one who is still sleeping after sunrise. He doesn't want to be in anyone's mind. And that's what concerns me.

The guilt due seeing someone plummet, a feeling too heavy to handle, that's the cause of my heart's lacking pulses. But is this really what Helshel'd felt in all these weeks? It's too difficult for me to bear for some hours, but for days and days...  
Maybe regret was so heavy that was suffocating in that weak body. Did this gesture give him liberty? When he wakes up and sees the bandages and the machines, will he be the same Hershel we had brought home 13 years ago? Will he do that again? What will his brother think? Will we be able to sa-

Enough. He will not do it again.  
We'll help him at any cost.

I can imagine he wants to leave Stansbury like we all, despite Mr Ascot and Angela were so kind, not only preventing our attendance in the funeral or memorial or whatever the hell they call it, but even to disturb themselves to send us a police constable home for taking away Hershel. And for what? For murder! Or rather, the murder, seeing the fact that seems only one person died in this forgotten by God village. They'd tried to question him, without success: he writhed, closed eyes, ears, pressing all his pain. In the end they'd retried, helped by a psychologist, that was answered with nothing but silence. She had confirmed his traumatic mental situation.

I was aware of Hershel's condition, but only now I can fathom what he's gone through, being under a pressure impossible to bear, until he's snapped. Until he's wondered:«Was it really me?». Despite our innumerable no, he can't help but feeling responsible, thinking other impossible possibilities and causality-

I was aware of this, and yet I wasn't. I couldn't realize the matter was this grave. My son needed support, and I wasn't reliable.  
How could I have been so blind and insensitive? Am I worthy as a mother? And when he wakes up, will he tell me he hates me?  
No, he will not, sadly: he hates everyone but himself. But why? Maybe for not avoiding the others, for not drawing attention. For hiding his disgust and self-hatred.

_Then a mother ought to wish to be hated by her own son rather than leaving the youngster rotting inside._  
My mere hope is that everything will be back to normal as soon as possible.

In the silence that follows I hear faster sounds, breath now in a wakefulness pace. From the corners of the eyes I can see supine eyelids that let the light enter. Despite my eyesight is foggy and not focused to anything, I notice Hershel is turning his head, trying to inspect the room and deduce the course of events. He's like his father: I remember he too inspected every corner, even the most trivial, in order to solve those terrible homicides.

He turns to me. He doesn't look happy, or there wouldn't be all those wrinkles and skin would be spread homogeneously. At my sight, he stiffens, distancing. I take his hand laying on the mattress, almost as if he forgot its existence, and I caress it gently. Then I kiss it and I cover it with mine, warmer. Then Hershel relaxes and let me do, releasing steaming tears.

«Mum―» sobs choke him and I rub his back in order to give him ease. «Forgive me... I've made a mess... it's all my fault...»

I just console that poor soul, cruel drops gush from my eyes. «Everything will be alright, Hershel.» With the index finger I rise his chin firstly passive, his gaze watered.. «We will solve this story. Together.»

Mutually we embrace ourselves, me keeping attention to his wounds. I sense his head on my right shoulder, his breathes speeded by sobs, his beat leaded by the original panic. Despite the tears, bandages and the docs that just entered in the room, I can't help but smile to the life. Hershel is here, among us.

«Mistress Layton, if I could.» Meds intervene and loosen the embrace with no problems. «We must check up patient's conditions.» Not protesting, I nod and leave the room, not without a grin to the son I never could have.

I sit on one of the many plastic and uncomfortable chairs, but I don't pay much attention to it, as I did this morning after all. I see all the meds and nurses run through the many rooms, puppets owned by Time, threatened by death. Doctors leave from the 289 room. They inform me of his stable condition in hurried fashion. Then, abandoned by his colleagues, the only one left adds the patient is resting and suggests it would better not to put him in too much pressure, so one person per time maximum. I don't make in time to ask anything that he vanishes. Really fast, the lad. A gurney passes in front of me, the laid woman covered in blood and bruises, and it enters through the same door, the one that in the last 5 minutes just can't stop creaking. I hope that woman will survive. Before I can spend my little energy to my thoughts, in the hallway I hear familiar voices, among them a deep but warm one, love's voice. Without losing an instant, I stand up and approach them. It's Roland, Alphonse and... Angela? My face is darker due the latter's presence, but looking hard I note the the no more candid sclera of the only visible eye, the other one assaulted by curls, purplish cheeks, bit lips and a nose that doesn't quit running. I've never seen that girl so upset. She doesn't dare to cross my eyesight, with an ashamed fashion, hugging herself with those skinny arms...

Roland surpasses me even with words: immediately he explains that Angela wants to bid her apologies, both to me and Hershel. At his mention, she just nods frantically.

«Forgive me for what happened, mistress Layton.» she doesn't direct the gaze, but formalities. She bows a little, curving her back.

Normally, I can be so barefaced to tell her the classical set phrases like «No need to be sorry» or simply let my hands do the talking. But actually, despite what she caused claiming Hershel as a murderer, I just can't punish her. Rather, I don't have the right. Besides the fact that she's not my daughter, I can't judge her as a person. She'd lost her lover in such a young age as adolescence, maybe the most important moment of life for growing psychologically. But anyway mourning isn't a simple weight to lift on one's shoulders. And more than that she already has one, for 8 years by now. How can I judge her? I can't imagine what I would have done if the one to die had been Roland... Better not thinking about it.

So, for breaking the ice, I hug her. Firstly rigid and motionless, a quake blows her, the diaphragm under unbearable efforts and sobs not so difficult to hear, my t-shirt wet. Even the two men, even if their physique doesn't make one think it, are touched and join to the grasp. And we stay there, in a corner of a hallway that, despite the traffic made by doctors, time is suspended.

«We all forgive you.»


	8. Seppia

**Angela Foster POV**

Few days from the disappearance, enough for making us realize his more likely conditions, Mr Ascot has manage shortly to organize an event dedicated to his... vanished son. Formally it's supposed to be a memorial, even though, in the same ceremony, the man himself has defined it a funeral and has given voice to the speech in a past tense.

«Randall was a admirable son for his dedication to school and the family and, even if a dreamer, he never disappointed us. He was always so gentle, respectful and helpful to everyone, starting from ordinary acquaintance to his closest friends. Even if diehard and maybe sometimes transgressive... -he lifts the sleeve to his eyes, drying the inexistent tears, sobs made by mere fantasy- I miss him so much. So, thank you all for being here with us -the wife is closer, a doll in his grip- for sharing this grief, an imminent day but untimely. Thank you.» The severe man bends the head, telling me to go there, the paper with the speech already in the pocket, and he leaves through the applauses; Mrs Ea, exhausted for being emotional, drags her foot. The pair of loud hands decrease, hiding themselves in the black crowd, disappearing completely, some sinking in the pockets, other hanging on the sides that don't give assistance. Silence is drawn, my hammering heeled steps are intruders, almost sacrilegious, my dynamic figure in the environment sprains the equilibrium that has been created earlier. In that magma you cannot hear even the shyest or most arrogant coughs. Inhales cease to exist.

Only now I acknowledge the breath I've been keeping since the sun rose this morning, or since it was setting in the passed days and the news had arrived to me and all Stansbury. The closed air of my familiar refuge, in which in these days I'd been a recluse, is still soaking the lungs, the vocal cords no more tense, no more used to vibrations. But that voice in my head is unstoppable, incessant in hypothesizing speculations like: surely Randall will come back, with some bruises here and there, smiling, walking on his own legs, with empty or full hands (who cares!), maybe giving me sorry for not listening in his careless fashion despite the difficulties, but alive and kicking.

Oh, here we are again with this vain hope... Many define the ignorance a bliss, but isn't that what will drag me to madness? What will kill me first, the death or the disappointment by the missed advent?

Those thoughts are surely painful.

Those thoughts are damn heartening.

Those thoughts are forever utopic.

I beak the tension with a loud sigh, stopping hiccups that suffocate my lungs, the relief evaporates.

The blank noise, from the conciliatory intentions, shows its true colours as a latent disease: in the crowd, in passing, as always, I see Simon and Randall, their gaze confused and lost, oblivious of the turn of events. Exactly like yesterday, when from the sepia pictures they came back to life.

I'm feeling suffocating, the legs don't obey and give out, the tears overflow immediately. I kneel on the floor, the pavement cold like that coffin, like those drops I'm pouring. I sob and snivel like only children do, my eyes blinded by the indoor rain and by the hailstones that is ripping my flesh apart.

My cheek senses a palm, its thumb dries and warms it. I rise my sight. After days of delirium, I can see the face no more hidden by that cursed mask, those stupid glasses vanished, now a far memory. I'm prey to ecstasy, no more worried of what's real or imaginary, but no one reacts. The world around us is silent. It doesn't exist. It hasn't a motive.

With the other hand he accompanies me, helping me standing. The fingertips press on my eyelids, trying desperately to console me, not knowing they were causing the contrary instead. Then he envelopes me in a hug, the tears unstoppable.

«Angi, dear, don't cry -I sob anyway, the grip stronger, encouraging- and know that I'll always be on your side, don't forget it -he rises my chin, my eyes open wide to the vision- do it for me. Shhh...»

Her rocks me as if I'm his little sister, like when there was my brother's funeral. When I felt in debt to him.

The mind, intoxicated by happiness, rage and confusion, wants to give voice to my thoughts, the throat contracted, the cords ready to make the message audible, but the heavy mouth tries to stop me.

I open it anyway and, as I've breathed and mimic the mute letters, the magma swallows the sight, no input from the environment but a strident noise. My hands on the ears, the shouts to the emptiness and the shutted eyelids save me for some seconds. Now the eyes see the world.

The heart pounds wildly, the hand tries to hinder the velocity, the breaths the panic.

«It was just a dream.»

_Yes, but how much far from reality?_

* * *

... It's been a great while from the last update.

It's been almost 3 months and, despite all this time, you've found the shortest chapter.  
I'm really sorry for the gigantic hiatus, I hope it will never happen anymore. Luckly physics stopped torturing me. For now. I can't say the same with other problems but hey, those are my business and mustn't get in the way.  
Whatever. I feel really sorry for this, but recently events are not that kind to me. Okay, my shoulders lifted a bit, but then they weight even more now. As always, if you feel like to comment, it's always well appreciated. Insult me if you must.


	9. Caeruleus

_**Henry Ledore POV**_

Finally Mr and Mrs Ascot have decided to interrogate Layton by themselves, since that, according to Mr Ascot, «the police's minutes doesn't suffice».  
Without asking, last night I've taken the liberty to read the document where it was merely reported the traumatic state of the interrogated, aside from other already known information, like the victim's name and the scene of the crime, reported as _unknown_. I'm really sorry for Hershel, but we must know the truth, so we can find master Randall.  
In the early morning I've been called during one of my morning chores, which is organizing breakfast.  
I accompany Mrs Ascot in the car opening the door and helping her sitting down; apparently she's still too shocked for her son's whereabouts, perfectly comprehensible for a mother.  
I go in the back seats, then a quake indicates the inserted key and the gear change.

«Ea, have you checked out if yesterday both the Laytons went back home?»  
«Yes. Poor Lucille-»  
«My foot! Poor you, dear, you're suffering like hell because of that b-»  
«Brat. And then you know Laytons is a respectable family-»  
«Oh, right, so much that they destroyed my hand when I was giving that slap-»  
«And our child instead wasn't that Saint-»  
«Isn't!» He yells loudly the verb in present tense, because present is his life on this earth. I would have never thought she's already lost hope, but mine will never die. «I didn't expect you could trust that... brat at all, but be sure he will confess.» I don't know why, but the sentence apparently scares her. Then, in front of a red semaphore, Mr Ascot turns to me. «Henry, you have a very important work today.»  
«Sure, sir. At your command.» In the way he gives me instructions and indications for my mission.  
«Understood it all?»  
I kneel. «Yes, sir. I will serve you with honour.»  
Shortly, we arrive to the hospital. The sight of the door with the number 289 on it, the masters sit leaving green light and the sign with the head from him, telling me the mission started scares me. I'm not that scared because I have to deal with a broken guy and try to gain important information, because the last thing I would want to do is to fail, to disappoint my protectors, sacrilegious for my ideals.  
The command is followed: the hand on the handle rotated the cold iron, I open and close the door behind me slowly, silently, stealthy steps.

I explore the room not so spacious, but white and tidied, rather than the master's bedroom. The wide open window moved the cloths of the clear curtains and the bed's covers, neat, fresh and perfect, like the one I leave when my chore is to make the beds of the family. Despite the head is facing the other end, from the immobile body and being the only static object, I can say he's sleeping. I turn toward the door and rotate the handler.

«Why are you here.»  
He takes me by surprise. The hand is frozen, the mind assaulted. I can feel his eyes on my back. _Don't let it take you, you must find the truth._ I face him. «I wanted to know you you've been.»  
«You're lying.»  
«Eh-» I swallow secretly, the noise too clear in the silence though. «How can you say that?»  
«You want to know of Randall.» He dodges the ask, smiling sadly.  
My eyes open wide automatically, revealing my true intentions.  
«It was just a simple foreboding, but apparently I was not any wrong.»  
_So I could've just lied again, damn!_  
«Why lie.» The apathetic voice forgets the question marks.  
I tremble to the reaction. I don't answer.  
«You're scared, right?―Bingo―That I'm not going to talk, that I'm not going to tell you what you want to know.»  
I rub my hands, the sweat betrays me nodding to him.  
«But I must say―he straightens the back, now vertical―you're right to be scared because I have nothing to tell you. Now you can go-»  
«But Randall-»  
«Is dead, yes. And I am the murdered. I see you're updated-»  
«But it can't-»  
«If you'd been with me, you would'ven't those dobt-»  
«Where has he fallen?!» I cut to the chase.  
«I cannot tell you.» The eyes are a dark void, neither the light could give life back.  
But I don't let myself being swallowed. «Listen, I want to help-»  
«Ah, really? And how?!―the laughs that follow is clearly sarcastic and bitter―His is surely not the first grave with no corpse-»  
«But-»  
«WANNA UNDERSTAND OR NOT THAT HE'S DEAD?! DEAD! JUST A CORPSE NOW! I'M A MURDERED, UNDERSTAND? IF YOU WANT TO HELP ME, AT LEAST LISTEN TO ME AND STOP SAYING BULLSHIT!» He swallows, composing himself. Only now I note we both treble for the commotion, he's in tears, the voice weak. «And even if I tell you what happened, it would might be even your tomb-»  
«I'll be caref-»  
«LET ME FINISH!―eyes sweat―AND EVEN IF YOU DIDN'T DIE THERE, you would might not find-»  
«But-»  
«BUT. BUT, even if you found him you would find him DEAD, because he can't be alive, understood?! So, what does it will change? Nothing.»  
«We can prove-»  
«What? That I'm innocent? That in that moment there really was nothing I could've done? That death was his destiny? No one will believe you, and believe me when I tell you I don't believe it either. Believe me when I tell you I lost all the hope.»  
I regain composure. _It can't end this way, I don't want to fail, not for my mister's nor for my master's sake._ «So. I'm here because I want to know how to enter the ruins.»  
«Or you want to know how to die?―laugh with no mirth―Because I let you know that those are innumerable, of ways, and you're not obligate to follow your master's ways until this point.»  
I don't react to the provocation, my face always serious, his softens. «I want to find him. Not for me, but for my masters.»  
«Yes, you'll find him in the otherw-»  
«I'm serious. Let me talk, now.―he shuts―Masters Ascot organized a searching group ready for the rescue. I'm charged in gather information about the location. So, could you possibility tell me where it happened?»  
«No.»  
I sigh for frustration. But I don't give up. «A-»  
«You're just losing time here. First of all, you have whatever it takes for finding the location. If I don't remember wrong you helped him in his researches,―bitterness in the voice―so I have to tell you nothing. Then again...―he traps the covers in fists―if you AND ASCOTS―he yells to the wall―WANT ANOTHER DEAD BODY IN YOUR FAMILY, THEN DO IT YOURSELVES.―a vicious and sharp glaze back to me― Now. YOU ALL LEAVE!»  
«Her-»  
«GO! GET LOST! YOU ALL!» He tears away the needles and the cables, the covers stained, blood everywhere, spread on the tiles with prints by unstable foot. He tosses the bandages, showing the white and red scars. He approaches. I try to stop him, but the nails push me away, moving me and leaving the door open. A nurse sees the patient immediately. But the latter crosses a glaze with the Ascots'. _Shit._

«You thought I didn't realize?! Bastards, leave me alone!»

The doctor intervenes now, used to these relapses, but still scared. She helps the patient to go back in his room, asking help to her colleague in the surrounding.  
Tranquillized and accompanied by the helpers, the woman calls us. «His conditions were stable until this morning. You've shocked him not only physically but even mentally. You've-»  
«It was him the one to assault us with no motive!» sir justifies. And he's right, we did nothing.  
«Don't lie! Have you seen him he even removed the needles and the bandages? Well, this caused him great damage. And it's your fault. So you are no longer allowed to visit him and access this stable at all. I ask you to leave.» She follows us for the exit, two pair of eyes that harm me from behind and my left. _Shit._


	10. Lividus

_**Angela Foster POV**_

I cannot visit Hershel. And no, it's not because for my parents' will, but more because of the same doctors are the one to prevent it.  
In a concise and fragmented fashion the doctor explain us that a grave episode has taken place this morning, the cause not clear. «I don't want to say any name―she restates―but the patient is more at ease if vidited by his family members.»  
«How is he now?» Lucille is really upset by the change.  
«Surely better, even if he'd lost blood and some scars reopened.» The voice is not afraid, as it's not the mother's face, a hand on the chest, another one out of proportion rubs her shoulder. Then the doctor turn to me, the tone now sweeter, trying to give me comfort and make me forget what she's just said. «Don't worry for your friend, he will be alright soon. You can see him next week, alright?»  
I nod, the smile on her lips a proof that's what she wanted to see.  
I just hope these days will be short. The interminable hours tell me my wish is not granted. Or maybe yes? After all, I don't really want to deal with him, it's too hard. If only I'd been silent that night, if I'd stopped Randall... If only. And it will just be a if, being we all here now. The Laytons leave the 289 room in late night.

And my parents? Have they realized I left? When Simon was lost and until now even during Randall's disappearance, they never batted an eyes toward my coping mechanism of closing myself from all the world. They never even tried to open the door too, despite having a spare key of the room. It's too demanding talking with a shocked daughter. Waste of time and efforts. She will heal by herself.

The travel back in Stansbury is silent, as always after all, but the air is severely more tense. I've seen Lucille's eyes as staining with blood earlier.  
The husband squeezes the hand, comforting her. «Angela, I wanted to ask you a thing.» He too doesn't seem calm. _Didn't they say he was ok?_  
«Sure.»  
«Do you know who visited him this morning?»  
I try to deduce a possible culprit, but nothing. «No, I guess not.»  
«Then I'll tell you: the Ascots.»  
_What?!_  
«Indeed. And then I wondered: did you kn-»  
«Of course not!» I feel implicated, threatened. Voices are tense.  
«Then you know that in the funeral day police arrived because of a certain charge?!»  
I stay silent frozen.

Here's a memory: few hours after that sunset, the end of my life, ran off tears and hiccups, I hear someone knock from behind the door. He said:«I will find all the truth, don't worry!». Henry, what have you done... _Angela, what have you caused?!_

«Oh my god. So that's why you weren't there-»  
«You knew nothing?» Lucille intervenes, helping soothing the mood.  
«No. And I would've never dared.»  
«If I remember correctly you caused-»  
«Dear!―the wife stops him―Everyone makes mistakes, and she's no exception.»  
The linked hands between the knees show my disgust. «I reacted driven by impulse, but other than that I closed myself in my room. I had no contact with the outside.―I low the glaze, afraid―I thought you refused in assisting the memorial.»  
«On the contrary, we really wanted to come, even Hershel despite the fears.»

Air now is heavy. We reach the Layton's home, I leave the car, bid them goodbye and go toward the dark side of my home, under the window of the first floor, a bed sheet to climb. With all those times I met Randall in his home in secret, that's no more a big task. And as I've thought, the room is the same as I left, the door immobile and cold, some glass shards slightly touch my foot. I look at the first and original mirror, ruined and deformed, the reflection as well affected by the harm. My life will not be the same again.

...

I go back to school after the long absence time. I don't care reminding mum and dad of the justification. I want to pretend everything is the same as always. But someone is not of the same opinion.  
During recreation time, here there is Alphonse, the flame in his eyes alive. «Why are you like this?»  
«Like what?»  
«So calm. As nothing happened.»  
«Listen, you want me to stay home anothe-»  
«No, but I would like you try stop the rumors.»  
I note some guys that have a Hershel picture and covered in darts. Dalston has been staring at them for a while alreary, disgusted. «I know not everyone is so extreme, but-»  
«I doubt we can stop them. Maybe they'll forget it once?»  
He laughs bitterly. «Let alone. It's already too much if they've forgotten bullshit Randall did-»  
«Those were his dream-»  
«Yes, his. And where were yours? Come on, he acknowledged you just as a trophy or a toy. And don't tell me I'm overstating, becayse you too know I'm right.»  
I'm quiet.  
«He didn't change since when he was ten, since when he'd realized he could influence others strongly. Right, he was passionate with archaeology, but his prioroty wasn't meant to be you, rather than some rocks and shells? I remember when you bolted with that thing in the hand. You were crying, Angela, and nothing can deny or justify it.»  
I'm quiet, a tear on the cheek.  
«Let me tell you that from my view your relationship was not... healthy.»  
I'm perplexed. «And where are you getting at with this?»  
«Forget him.»  
«Excuse me?» A nervous laugh stops my screams.  
«You heard right. He was not worthy for anyone.»  
«How dare you-»  
He blocks my running hand in his. «I'm not joking. He was an opportunist bastar-»  
«LEAVE ME!» I draw everyone's attention, I give him a slap with the other hand. «Don't even try!» I run from the classroom and find refuge in the bathroom. I lock the door. He doesn't follow me.

I hear rumors in the hallways. I hate it, I hate it! They're made by me, and yet I can't stop them. It's terrible creating something and being unable in controlling it.

You're enslaved to the past.  
You're enslaved to the responsibilities.  
You're enslaved to the causality.


	11. Oltremare

_**Hershel Layton POV**_

After an additional week under meds' care because of the meeting I had with Henry, they've decided to release me without problems, even if some doctors didn't agree, calling it _untimely_. «Be careful. And Hershel, just know you are not alone.» the man with the white scrub reassures me. I'm not that certain that being in constant company makes me feel safe or a prisoner.

Anyway, I've talked with the Laytons regarding my decision of the academical choice: I'll move to London and will attend Gressenheller university, archaeology faculty. As it could be predictable, the two aren't not that enthusiastic of my choice: Lucille's perplexity is readable in her eyes, while Roland's confidence is in his own words. «You know, son—he smiles at me sympathetic—Randall would be happy to know you'll go to Gressenheller, so quit frowning!» I get assaulted, the bush the victim of the attack.  
The tickling melts me, the laughter rise instinctive, rising the spirits, even the more depressed one like mother's: she can't stop smiling, almost ripping apart the lips' edges. In that instant I've forgotten all my life and problems. I was free.  
Then hilarity blows out, like everything that lives. The air is again stained with embarrassment, other than doubt, my eyes escaping from other glances that are instead inquiring and cheeky, intruders. Or actually I am the intruder?

I stand up lifting the chair, not leaving tracks on the carpet. The meat is still lying on the plate, by now cold, dry, twisted and tortured by the knife for the mere goal of distraction. Now it's just a matter of putting back together the pieces, hoping that everything is back to normal, stupidly.

Their eyes stare on me. They're scary. _If you'll be silent enou-_  
I get enveloped, the warmth spreads suddenly placid and hot. Mum keeps me tight in a comforting embrace.  
The hug melts me, my stiffness evaporates, the tears flood in silence. Another pair of arms joins, the muscles stronger but still reassuring.  
«We are proud of you.»

[...]

Awakening, the sunrise far from showing itself, I remember that today will be the last day I'll spend here in Stansbury. «You can bid farewell to everyone before departing.», Lucille's suggested me last night. Actually I'm not that sure if I can talk to anyone but my parents. Can I do it?  
In early morning I stand up from the bed and dress, then peer the sky until the first ray arrives, the glimmer too small for the sun and yet the light blinding. Fastly the ultramarine cloth lying on the atmosphere is aflame. Funny thinking a colour can be set on fire by a colder one.

With the retina still marked by the extraterrestrial being, I go down the stair and prepare the table and the tools, then make breakfast: a mere teapot with pipping hot water, biscuits served on a plain plate, alongside some sugar cubes, just in case, since we don't love sweets. From the still exposed shelf I take an Earl Grey bag. Having breakfast early in the morning is a ritual that usually eases me from anxiety, but not today. It'll be probably the fact I'm going to talk to the inhabitants-  
_Thanks for reminding me..._

A strand of light evades from the curtain that since yesterday is half extend, the glare reaches my eyes again and distracts me. Then some steps draw my attention. They are two pairs, slow, not troubled. How can they be so confident?

«Good morning, son. Already up, eh?» then her pupils focus on the table, the cups and the enveloped tea blend ready. «Thank you.» A smile spreads on her face. A contagious smile, that infect dad and me. Is there really hope?

This time I decide to eat and drink on the table with them. Apparently this provokes them relief, their shoulders no more stiff and the posture right. I'm not in the mood for chatting, therefore I just remind them today I'll say goodbye to Stansbury for the last time. «And don't worry for me, I'll be fine in London.»

«Remember to write us.» the white beard says.

«You too. Tell me how you are.» I don't want to know what's going to happen to the village. Not any more.  
After breakfast, I greet my parents and direct toward the exit door (or the entrance?), starting off to the rise that I should've walked even today if it weren't for the inevitable. The school tower-bell rise again from the hill, approaching the rest of the structure follows suit, buried by mere prospective. Maybe yes, there is hope. I approach the gates, then the hallways, crossing the entrance, surrounded by locks and tactless glares.

_Don't look them, don't care of them, avoid them._  
If it were possible... But I've already seen them even last night, maybe this time they will spare me...  
_Fool, you know as well as I that you won't get away with it, that you feel those thousands staring at your back, bolts on the wounds, palpable even under thick bandages. Look, some even dare to stare frontally, lucky common sense convinces them to batten down the hatches. You're just a twat that hopes to find some peace right where there is not... Miserable..._

I enter the History classroom, searching for Mr Collins. Lucky the bell is yet to right and students are scarce, or there will be a mess.

The teacher hears the intrusive steps and rises his glance from the register where the nose was buried, his signature clear like always. «Layton?» The lens zooms on my eyes, that appear surprised of my arrival, almost incredulous. I don't know if it should reassure me. _What the fuck are you doing?! If your classmates won't forgive you, why should he do that, the most strict teacher?!_ The black frame can't stop looking on the gauze around my neck. _Dickhead, you didn't have to-_ «I'm happy to see you. Are you fine now?»

«Y-yes,... thank you.» The question takes me by surprise. He's really worried for me?- _Come on, cut to the chase._ «However, I've decided to move to London. I will study archaeology in Gressenheller university.»

«Archaeology? But you don't- Oh...» The lens reflex the realization, the lips clasped, substitute of the hands. He notes my eyes in the void. _You haven't yet realized you're not supposed to be here-_ «What happen back then was not your fault.»

The question is spontaneous. «Why.»

«Why what?»

«Why shouldn't it be my fault? I was there, I could've saved him and-»

The hands close on my shoulders, stopping my tears. «Not everything is preventable, Hershel. Randall was a stubborn lad, you surely know better than me that making him change his mind was a Herculean mission, if not impossible. You've done what you could in order to stop him, save him, but not everything is your responsibility. Surely his lost is a tragedy, but we must not spill any more blood for this.» Now he smiles at me, refinding confidence in the words that follow. «Anyway, you said Gressenheller, right? Then I hint you to follow doctor Schrader's courses: other being an expert palaeontologist, he even handles the archaeology faculty. I've heard good things about him, even if sometimes he can be quite the character.» The stiff and sensitive shoulders feel a presence, the teacher's right hand tries to wake me up, smiling at me. «I wish you the best. I hope you'll find good company in London, and be a good lad like you've always been.»

«T-thank you...» I just bend for respect and leave the room. The tension is so high to delete the distress in the hallways, my thoughts toward who I'm going to meet next. I leave the institute, the bell gives me luck and a last greet.

Talking with Angela is such an impossible task that has not been considered allowable. When I have some time I'll write her a letter. Now it's not the time to think of how and when.  
I proceed toward the Ascots household. Yes, their: even if we had a sort of conversation during my recover, I want to leave closing all the issues. Actually my real intention is to talk with Henry, but probably he's not in the market for fulfilling his chores.

With all surprise I find the young butler outside the mansion's doors, his eyes immobile toward the hill with the tree on its top; a worn-out jacket provides him shelter from the atmospheric agents which he's not accustomed to, a hand hidden in the pocket, the other one holds a lightweight luggage. He doesn't look happy to see me (and who wouldn't?), but he has still some hope. The eyes don't tell he's interested of my presence, and yet he talks to me. «Hello, Hershel.―the lips hint a smile. I don't exchange―You know, I just wanted to-»

«I'm moving.»

His eyes, usually hollow, freeze on the statement. «W-what?»

«I'm going to London.»

An embarrassed laugh rises, stopping me. «I hope you're kidding. I need you come with me-»

«I'll depart today, right after noon.»

Panic paints on his features and gestures, assaulting me holding from my arms. «You can't go, not now!»

«Henry-»

«How can we find-»

«I've already told you:-»

«HE IS ALIVE! If not, at least let's find the body.»

I sigh. «There was nothing we could do back then, and there is nothing we can do now. Give up, it's pointless. Stansbury has already found a scapegoat and lives in peace.»

«Hershel, I know his disappearance is not your fault. But if you're guilty of betrayal is because NOW you're abandoning him, you're leaving him to the death-»

«I'll be frank, Henry: I'm sorry for the pain you're having, but know that nothing will change my mind. Now any-more. I ignore his calls, leaving behind his disappointment and the luggage forgotten on the ground.

[...]

Now it's one past twelve and I have no intention to wait further. I think it's time to leave Stansbury. Ma and pa are ready for the departure, my trunk and books already in the luggage compartment. Alphonse arrives, a conciliatory smile rare to see.

«Thank you, Alphonse, thanks for everything. I'm in debt-»

«Don't mind! You just needed a shoulder to cry on, that's all. Rather good luck.»

I extend my arm, ready to shake his hand. He obliges, his eyes sad. I climb in the car, the words that I had left ran out. In few minutes the engine starts, creating some vibrations that are relaxing if exposed for a short while, but I'll make them do. We distance from home...  
There were necessary almost three years for bounding so much with this town as a home and few weeks were enough to destroy it, with the hopes.  
In the distance I can eye a feminine figure that shakes her arm in the air for goodbye, I suppose.

We're far enough to see all the town hiding behind the hills that surround it, the hills from which we've escaping.  
I feel like an escapee, a coward, but I know there is nothing else to do now. «Think outside the box and everything will be clearer.» they often told me.  
Maybe I could... I don't know: after leaving the trophy to the gravestone I'm feeling more empty then when I've seen the fake mountain, more empty than the buried coffin.  
I don't know how my future will be like, but one this is certain: I won't come back in Stansbury.

Goodbye, Randall. Goodbye, Stansbury.


	12. Rosso mogano

_**Edward Ascot POV**_

_day xxvii_

_if it weren't for this journal, I quite positive I would've lost the count of the days passed from the lost._  
_Silence mocks me, but after all I can't stand other noises outside Ea's whimpers and sobs, they are quite enough. Loneliness is impossible to bear, then again I don't know how to behave in front of other faces that are not the youngsters' from the speleologist team and Henry's. Surely they are no more shocked to see such a hideous look, in fact is visible Henry's concern, but I just don't care any-more._

_In the house there are only two tormented ghosts, the looks a mere trivia, the presence aural only._  
_By now I'm quite used to the morning and evening forays by the team. "Today still nothing", at the daily sentence only the more agonized and agonizing sobs of her are audible, tormented in the desperation, in the other side of the house. The only thing I can sense is my wrath. I give them their wage unwillingly, I ask them if they can make a discount, and again they remind me their life is at risk every day. If you die I am the one to pay, though..._

The word ends the ink, the sigh ends the pen's course, the thoughts absorbed by the sheet of paper, laying on the only available table of the house: the fee for financing them is becoming even more unaffordable. I don't even have more money for an ink-pot. I can write over the empty walls with chalk or blood.  
In my ears there are only the nth sobs of Ea. As if they are for something at all...

I stretch, leaving behind the lone chair, the floor creaks, no more used to living movements.  
Thrown paper balls are all other the corners, pages creased and ripped by the momentary lunacy.

_Bills are now all over the desk, covering it all, but my w- just cut the power._

_I've gathered as much money I cou- workforce reduction, -. I'm sorry for Henry, - a reliable guy, even if not always high-performance._

_Despite all my efforts, apparently they were just pointless: if only that bastard of Layton - cut and run away, there would have been visible progresses. I've seen Henry joined the teams and doesn't even demand money, luckily, however -_

Stop wasting papers. Stop wasting time.

I approach ou... her be... room: she sought refuge there, immobile but alive... Is she really, though? Now we don't eat for days, the conversations inexistent, the miserable existence bordered in a room empty but full of sign of life, of memories.

I reach the door, her complaints always a death breath, or maybe worse, several whispers that remind the sorrow this place is soaked with. I regret it, but I open the accessible door, eyes closed fearing the sight of the _imago mortis_.  
The skeleton is covered in worn dresses, only source of colour in the entire room. The figure gives the back to the entrance, knelt down, the fingertips rub the wooden spheres, the cross oriented toward the floor, with the tears and her gaze.  
I close the distance, hiccups stop as the wood cracks.

She holds the rosary, leaving tracks on the weak and delicate palms. She turns loudly, the hair still have her scent. «What are you here for.»

I hesitate, but close even more, until I can embrace the shoulders with my heat. «I want to know how are you.»

Her eyes are fixed on the ground, she doesn't exchange the hug, the voice freezing. She evades the question. «Some news of him?» She can't say his name. Does she want to forget him? But her wet eyelids deny it.

«No, darling.» I cuddle her, rocking with her, the crack of the wood doesn't help at all.

She trembles, probably because of the freezing air: the window is wide open for days now, the insects fly quietly, moths lie where there were once the curtains, now they embrace the cold glass. She trembles, right, but doesn't cover herself. A punishment she must pay in order to rescue Randall, how foolish!

I'm so frustrated that I have to stop her with these pointless complaints, I just leave the embrace, the hand flies. The bruise left by the clack on her face almost makes the life flow back. «Enough crying, woman! That hooligan deserves not any of these prayers!»

She laughs ashamed, gives me a slap, tears all spread on the floor. «That hooligan is our son!»

My mind drifts on the sentence, the reality far but even more tangible than before. Randall is our son, Ea his mother.

We two, me _in primis_, made anything we could in order to educate him in the best ways, accompany him in the growth with the best teachers, we've employed a servant that had to be a peer for making him less lonely, we've prepared a safe, lucrative and rich future, he had friends, a brother, a town where everyone loved him- he lacked of nothing.  
Until adolescent years, when he wanted to rebel and live in a world of his fantasy.

Randall, look the conditions of Ea, YOUR mother's, knelt and in the cold she summons your name, in a room that doesn't do justice to her goodness. Look the conditions of who had almost lost her life for making you birth, because of you I could'd been widowed. She doesn't deserve such a grief, no one deserves to cry for someone like you.  
Look YOUR father's conditions, that tries to stop the infinite weeps, on the breadline, and he still search for you.  
About who gave you everything you were able not to only care, and now, because of a mere argument regarding your bloody dreams, you were able to only disappear, saying no word to us. You've always been a selfish, disrespectful- a monster.

I stand up, toward the door.

«Where are you going.» she asks me giving me the shoulders.

«I'm going find him.» I answer her giving her the back.

She lets go a gloomy laugh. The hair move dragging the dress: she turned around. «Then I advice you starting searching from the right room...―tears suffocate the tired voice, that recovers with hysteria―seemingly your will of finding me is strong!» she reaches my arms, I turn for the pain. In those glasses I see his fake, the eyes full of insanity and madness. «Or maybe you're just a coward?»

The sweat suddenly covers all my body lied on the floor, the blanket an awful towel, the grip dissolves, the disappeared image replaced with the pale ceiling eaten by the void. I pant for the fear, I reach the heart to stop it from the race.

Muscles are still stern, eyelids wide open in order to examinate the whole room, the brain still confused. But it doesn't take that much to realize it was a mere nightmare.

In fact the house is like the last time, the sheets paper the floor, the pages of the diary violated is what remains of these days. Tears can't stop being shed, hiccups pointlessly repressed arrive them all from that room: Ea is closed in that anonymous space surrounded by darkness, the stomach in pain for two days, knelt on the floor, hands joined embrace the rosary, and begs God to find Randall.

Instinct tells me to go toward that almost stranger door. Its insides don't see the main hallway for several years, about three. I open the crying door, not used to intruders, acting like a wall more appealing, but I open it nonetheless, hinges scream for the violence. The door hits the near wall, vibrations move the dust from the lamp and for some centimetres from the floor, even from the piles that cover the corners of the room, the bookshelf not enough for them all. Many of these books belong to my precious rarity collection, like _Ancient History_, still open on the desk, a mask rules on the centre of the page. Is this a joke?

A great piece of fabric hides the major wall, near the window, his way out.  
With the fury I've been keeping for years I tear the curtain, the nails that kept it safe useless are carried on the ground, jumping from the frame of the fabric.  
The wall is full of geometric scribbles, written in a disproportioned dimension and various colours, some are often written but in different patterns like rotated or reflected. There are some post-it hanged there, wasted notes.

The only readable and noteworthy thing is the journal, the leather strip closes the yellowed pages. I open it, a paper can't stay behind the limits of the cover. A map covers other sheets, the marked red cross on the ruins-

«It's almost like a treasure hunt, or maybe it's a manhunt.» the voice says.

I turn, the face enveloped in the shadow, only the outline identifiable, the glasses reflect the moonlight, eyes replaces with plain glass.

I hear the laugh he could hardly hold. I close my fists. «So you show up in the end?! If you really wanted to disappear then at least say where to!»

Incontinence betrays him, the snickering echoes in the hallways and in my eardrums. «O come on, father, it won't be challenging if I tell you now, right when you have obtained all the clues, if you know the way find the answer by yourself. _No risk, no glory_. You taught me that.»

I throw him a punch, he dodges it evaporating. He disappears completely from the view. I examine the room, but he can be in any shadow, like in none.

«Find me.»

After a moment of hesitation, I grab the map and exit from the window, already wide opened for me, the bed sheet set up for the sake of the research. I leave the home behind.  
He's behind me, breathes in my ear teasing sentences.  
But I don't sway. I'll bring him back home.


	13. Non so come chiamarti

**_Henry Ledore POV_**

The sun burns the van's surface and offal, the bright varnish and the curtains on the windows useless against the heat; the wind, whispering on the ears, peers and seeps in bringing sand, scratching the fabric and the equipment.  
The journey toward the ruins is not that different from usual, and as always the new employed complain about the impossible state, while the others, knowing well how soft their pockets will be and how full their wallets, give back reason and peace in the environment.

The Star rises at its pace, a far but real image of wonder sets inside me, as if it's my first time this vision appears before my eyes.  
Despite the coffee recently offered by Philip, the organizer of the expeditions, eyelids are heavy, a migraine I can't decode drills my mind; the head bounce off at each hop made by the wheels, the shoulders the only available still support. Luckily my stomach is customised to these jumps, even if violent, so I can focus on the chaos in my brain. I close the eyes and take deep breaths.  
Now the picture is clearer, the sand transmutes in fire. A new Sun. The vision doesn't upset me, probably it's heat's fault, but I know, deep down, that this is not other than a mere weak excuse. I reassure myself saying "it already happened, now it's over".

I concentrate on the biggest oddity, on the worrying anomaly: the absence of Mr Ascot, a man extremely accurate on his routine and principles, even in the most brittleness moments like this one. He didn't have to smile to us, but at least he graced us with his own presence.

But until today: as demanded by him many times, _we reached his villa on time, the wristwatch's arms were saying it was the four and a half. We approached toward the principal entrance. The garden is each day worse and wilder, like the windows' dirty surfaces, the corners of the rooms, now house for spiders, and the immobile chairs, now rest for the dust. We knocked on the principal door and waited those few seconds a man takes for climbing down the stairs and letting us in, despite his soul upset for such a loss. We waited... waited... waited further. Nobody came. We exchanged some worried glares, eyes that said "he must be still sleeping". Philip looked at the buzzer, a golden and avoided panel that servitude'd taught me it hides a troubled mechanism, its damages irreversible despite the several maintenance. Before I'd been able to stop him, his nail pushed reluctantly on the sticky button, producing a voice clogged by dirty and harm, cawing, drilling and pesky like a choir of cicadas. The eardrums got deeply upset, the setting slumber traumatised: some of us with their hands were covering the ears, others the heart._  
_«Hell, Phil, make it stop!»_  
_«It's stuck!»_  
_The other, enraged, kicked and punched the infernal machine, a final whimper indicating the end of its and ours pain. Only now we processed the eyes from behind the door, opened, eyes owned by an almost-supernatural presence: I'm touched before the ghost of Ea, the oversized dress and the crooked jewellery her only link with this world, the wild eyes show frightening bags, the curvy posture and the uncared-for hair say that her apparition was unforeseen. Her gaze crushed me in a fit of angst. «Mistress-»_  
_«Where is Edward?___»_ she demanded. The question stayed with no answer. Her pupils dilated toward the silence, hands starting fidgeting. «Where is my husband?!»_  
_«Miss ― said Philip ― we don't know, we were hoping to find him here.»_  
_«But he said he was going to search him...»_  
Apparently the Master had told her he was going for the quest, saying we are a band of misfits.  
The lack of social life has made her loss a bit of tact, definitely not welcomed by the others: the first employed calmed their comrades in the journey, saying that «after all she's just an old nun».

It's not like Edward to disappear in the middle of the night, though: he had never considered in searching him by himself, it had been already difficult for Ea to convince him in employing some rescue squads. He categorically refused, saying, certain, that Randall would've come back on his own legs and that he wasn't going to spend another cent for him. Had he perhaps hopped in the growth of the little master, acknowledging the paternal authority?  
It took a slap from Ea for making him acknowledge the loss, twenty five days from the departure.

It's incredible how even Stansbury's changed, it has never been so hostile toward the difficulties: in times of need, everyone turned their back, who closing themself with never used keys, who taking the flying leap saying no word of apologize. Yes, the sudden departure of Layton disappointed me, right when I was ready to demonstrate his innocence and asking him help for the search...

I close my eyes, focusing on the silence, ending seeing the insides of the ruins, the cleft that seems to have eaten the little master... I can determine perfectly the red locks behind the rocks, the webs covering him from the dust, the ruined and abandoned glasses, the crimson liquid extending the shadow from the hair to the floor, everyone sinking in horror-

«Henry? Henry!» Philip shakes me, faking a smile. No one is on board, the sun not too high. It's not much I'm sleeping. «OK, I know you're really fond of this search, but you can't deny you're exhausted-»

«I'm fine, really.» I stand up, showing my lucidity, even if the achy legs don't help.

«I'm serious, Henry, you don't even follow the shifts anymore and you come here working hard every bloody day, you don't have to hide your tiredness.» his eyes are really upset, but not my soul.

«Don't worry.» I proceed toward the entrance for Akbadain. The dreamlike mist disappears reaching the familiar aura of the ruins, the sun rising from East a mystic vision that steals my breath. «And ― I add ― know that if I can't go on anymore, I'll tell you: the last thing I want is being a burden to you.» I access the ruins.

A resigned sigh tails me.


	14. Pece e carbone

**Henry Ledore POV**

I tremble at each groan coming from the nameless room, its purpose lost alongside its contents, the halls all twins devoid of inhabitants.  
It took so little to destroy a house.

Whines are so dense that the internal pressure could potentially turn the tormented phantom to dust, camouflaging in the building.

Sobs bring back in my mind the shouts and the terror born upon the finding of a corpse, a corpse we weren't supposed and couldn't think of finding.

I walk pass the bare hallways, several rectangular stains upholster the lateral walls fading them, the edges of the wallpaper plummets, the dry and yellowed glue escapes the corners; there are still some nails attacked, but there is nothing left of the pictures or the frames.  
It took so little to destroy a family.

I shake my head, perking up. I can't let myself go into despair, not now that I must help the mistr... help the la... wait, how should I name her now?  
Stupidly I start wondering which appellation I have to use from now on in order to speak with that ghost: mistress is out of discussion, I'm not her servant any more after the dismissal; neither lady Ascot is a possibility, it would cause too much pain reminding her... his surname. Ea is the only option left, however it's too informal and I'm not of her rank.  
_This is an idiotic matter to ponder on! Go console her, moron!_ My fist rises on eye level, the mahogany door in front of me desperately attempts to suffocate the crying, the hiccups to stop the tears. I swallow to the long-sighted scenery. «Ma'am?» I knock the wood.

The impact provokes a scared gulp, silencing the persistent whimpers. Breaths are withdrawn, but no verbal reply gets channelled from the other end. Then she resumes with the previous action.

I turn the handle and go inside, not waiting a consent.

The door reveals the now sighting scenery, the furnitures missing or unrecognisable, moved away from their belonged space, deprived of their original purpose, finding themselves in awkward and not comfortable positions, but still stable out of mere luck and sick physics. Their ornaments are not spared by the chaos, the vase with the dahlias of the bedside table now a squiggle of water, glass and cuts of petals camouflaged themselves in the rotten wood, terrain for mould, of questionable stability, crying under each vibration received.  
She gives her back to the door, knelt, the position unnatural and the spine bended a clear sign of discomfort, but manages to maintain the static that is so common with all the elements of the room. The gaze is buried to the ground due to gravity, the hold crown deforms her palms, the impact of the drops reminds time is flowing.

It's not the first time I'm seeing the mistress let herself overwhelm in the privacy of her bedroom: between the several chores and household duties I had to comply, there was the unsaid one of consoling mistress Ascot in her lowest moments of fragility or instability, usually due to a fight with her son or a brawl with the mister, or at times there wasn't a clear motive. Even back then she vented toward the room and its fragile content, but the material destruction was limited and hence repairable. But she was always like this: the watered makeup under her eyes underlined her bags, annoying the eyes already bloody; the cracked skin betrayed her true age; the rigid and angular fingers denied her delicacy.  
She was an anxious, old, neurotic woman.

But seeing this figure, a silhouette made out of vague shapes, with wizened sockets melted in the darkened edges, almost flayed, with wrinkles falling alongside the arms and the fabric, they all dragged by the heavy breaths, with uncured and wild nails, can I really say this is still her?

I approach on toes, trying to not start the natural and supernatural elements contained in the four walls.

She stiffens, recognising my presence, but she resumes with the torments.

I envelope the ghost, the grasp weak for giving her air, or else she'll die.  
She exchange the act, the hand strong for giving me reassurance, or else I'll cry.  
She breaths, but is she truly alive any more? She answers, but is she truly herself any more?

Now water moisturises my shoulder, swallowed partly by the green shirt, partly by the underlying skin; the length of the embrace is incalculable. For what I know, time could've just stopped.

Her stillness doesn't disappear with the grasp, turning from me again, her legs already closed in her arms, adhered to her unstable chest. Despite the lens reflecting the few ray of lights present, I can foresee her detached and stranger gaze, probably looking at unrealisable and lost images.

A wave of resentment swallows my core.

The new air is suffocating albeit the dancing curtains.  
The free walls are closer albeit the absent furnitures.  
Her lips are sealed albeit the tried comfort. There are no signs that indicate inappropriate, scared, hesitant words. She is not willing to reply. There is not even the common "thanks", like she always used to say.

I acknowledge the vain attempt, the failure weighing on my mind, the silent tears spontaneous. With no words said and noises caused, I leave the room, closing the door behind me.

Few silent seconds get broken by her sobs, the sounds between the hiccups utter random and gibberish, devoid of names, prayers or asks, like she used to do.  
It took so little to destroy a person.

I should've known it was going to end like this.

* * *

The next day I wake up finding myself on the dry leathered couch, the cracks on the surface filled with new dust, ready to cake the rooms and their contents; the cushions do miss the long missing maintenance, yelling for the pain. The first rays filter through the unkempt curtains, the Star blinds me for a brief second, not high yet. It must be six by now. The mass will start in three hours. Better start getting ready now: we can't afford to be there late, especially today.  
I take the dress from the armrest, my service uniform; despite the great importance of the ceremony we have to attend today and the solemnity it demands, those are only clothes I have that are, even if briefly, presentable and elegant. I try to straighten the messed shirt, wet by sweat and tears, stretching with the hands, removing, one by one, the scales of leather left behind by the sofa; I button up the sleeves, I shoo away the powder from the simple looking kaki trousers, I spit on the shoes and remove the dust with a fabric found on the ground, ending up dusting them even more, I wear them like nothing happened. Combed the hair between the fingers, I climb the stairs in pairs, hooking the braces in the meantime.

I reach the familiar door, the silence surrounds my lungs. For an instant I'm in Akbadain ruins, the coolness of my shoulders trembles, in front of me a pit, the dislocated corpse yells death, the victim trapped in the spiderwebs, his glasses lost in the fall. The fist tightens, falters, the images of last night still fresh in the memory, me myself oblivious of what could make her feel better. But reason reminds me the importance of today's ceremony, where punctuality is a must. I muster a breath and gently knock the door. Then, waited some silent seconds, I repeat stronger. I turn the handle and go inside, not waiting a consent.

The glimmer reveals other damages caused in the night: some of the perfumes' little bottles are no more whole, the jewel cases dismembered in the impact with the cremes, precious powder and cosmetics partly spread on the floor, partly on the shattered curtains, no more laughing, with the pointless, raw and unrecognisable covers. The unleashed smells are bitter and sickening.  
She gives her back to the door, the chair she's sit on is in front of one of the few furnitures spared by the chaos, its mirror just briefly stained by the splatters of the cosmetics but still miraculously intact. She doesn't react to my steps or my presence, she just distantly looks at my reflection.

I stop instead, meditating on the words I'll choose to say: she can be silent, but she will compensate her words with sharp hears.  
«Good morning…» I start, leaving space where the title was once.

Nothing.

«I hope sleep has been peaceful and restful tonight.»

Her chin falls.

«You remember what's on today, don't you?»

A tear caress the cheek.

_Are you stupid or what?!_ Cold sweats, I move on, approaching. «I-I'll help you get ready.»

The drop reaches the fingers overlying on the lap.

I take a deep breath. My inexperienced and humble hands search for the most suitable attire. I have absolutely no idea what a lady is supposed to vest in such events, but I just try to seek for a black elegant dress. My fingertips sense a light and transpired fabric, which is perfect for a warm summer's day. It must be silk. I grasp the coat hanger and inspect the dress more closely: it's long-sleeved and with almost no details, almost pleasant to the eye, with its discreet veil. It's black, and this satisfies me.  
I turn to find her standing up, ready to be dressed, despite the lack of a verbal request. I help her insert the sleeves and the shoulders, fixing the epaulettes and removing all the folds and wrinkles; I stretch the skirt, revealing the length that hides her callous foot.

She collaborates to the dressing, passively. Now she's back on the chair, knowing exactly what follows.

I take the little wooden box now decorated in cracks and cosmetics. The late mistress Ascot was deeply fond of that jewel case, keeping in the insides her most precious and dear wedding gifts. «See, he gave me these for our first anniversary,» she once told me. I instinctively take the golden earrings, I insert the nail in the lobe and close it.

She looks herself on the mirror, freeing the ears moving the hair. But then silence, her gaze falls on the bare left ring finger.

Now it's time for the hair style: I pick up a brush, its bristles parted and ruined by glass, and I remove the dangerous splinters; I part her long hair in locks and I comb them, one by one, slowly and carefully, so I can avoid any knot that could give her annoyance.

If normally she would complain for the slowness, now she does not talk.

I examine her face features, keeping note in mind of the unwanted signs to hide, like old lady Dalilah taught me in one of her lessons regarding the use of cosmetics. I still remember how «there is no woman, even less a high lady like mistress Ascot, that could afford in exhibit her true age or reveal in any form her own private problems and distress in which she lives with,» I even remember her haughty laugh at my question. «Why, you ask? But it's quite obvious: it would be not polite to let others know your own problems, I believe others have enough already to ponder on! Then again it will not solve one's uneasiness.» But it will surely help, I would've said if I'd been braver back then, but I kept the reply to myself.  
I attempt to gather what is still serviceable of the thrown cosmetics, in clear sight a stick with short eyelashes drown in black ink. It's available a bottle skin coloured only, the creme still completely locked. A foundation. I'll take what I can get.  
I spread the lotion below the eyes, the existential tiredness impossible to hide.

She does not react to my fingers, possible source of disturbance to her old visions.

I reach for the red shoes thrown on the ground. I caress the velvet, not the shade of red even on all the surface.

She stretch a leg per time in position.

I support myself on the right knee and put on her foot.

She stands up and looks at herself on the mirror, not giving too much mind on the gestures, automatic for habit. Neither the heels are capable in hiding her recent hump. The hollow eyes wander about the room, then crash on the door.

I go there, open the door, giving her enough space for her, like lady Dalilah taught me, and she approaches, her footsteps slow in order to generate louder noises. I carefully take her arm in arm along the hallway and I accompany her toward the flight of stairs. At the first step I realise the shadow's left me, the still heels follow a religious silence toward the prohibited door, the still eyes examine the blurred letters, the fingertips run on the crooked outlines made out of cardboard; even if those signs were made really fast and not too thoughtfully by Randall, no one even dared to violate their request: "No trespass". The only one allowed to pass that door was me, explicitly said by the young master. But now accessing it would be a sacrilege.

She's already passed over the door.

Despite the overwhelming and blinding shame, I manage to look the room: apparently no one entered after Randall's disappearance, furniture untouched, even if the window is wide open, not like he had left it; this time the curtains sit on the balcony. I glance the cloth on the floor, now the puzzle under the Star's light, the symbols of his markers almost incise in the plaster. Only now I actually realise the prominence of his findings, taking under account his young age, other than for the innovation per se.

And yet she gives no attention to the curtains, let alone on the scribbles on the bare wall. She blindly goes to the dusty wardrobe. She opens the doors, forages and shuffles among the clothes.

I follow her and barely suffocate the yells and questions ready to explode. «Ma'am, it's time to depart.»

She keeps shuffling the order. Between the fabrics she extracts a large plastic bag, with no wrinkles nor imperfections. She hangs the hanger on the high corner of the wardrobe, breaks the seal, revealing a black and elegant suit, its buttons still shiny, an emblem hidden by the perfect-folded handkerchief.  
Her eyes look mine, not their reflection, not the fog that's rising; she's looking at me, for too much time. Then her glance shifts on the suit. The wrinkled fingertips grab the fabric and leans its upper part, its sleeves and the trousers along my shoulders, arms and legs, the noble cloth now infected with the dust. She lifts the suit on my visual field, closing the distance: «Don it,» her gestures are saying.

I take the hunger and, frozen by her presence, I limit myself to keep it away from any surface.

She vanishes, the spectral heels only indication of the rising distance.

I touch the seams, the coal fabric still soft as if it's being sewn moments ago. I wear the snow shirt just too large on the sleeves, the trousers falling on the sides, the red tie and the jacket that hides the imperfections of the size. The service uniform is now so dirty and inappropriate to the touch and to the sight. And I even thought it was a good idea to dress it on a funeral, unbelievable.

She's back, her presence gradually rising, her path a long chain made out of muddy pearls and diamonds. Her hunchback is even more visible due to the weight her hands are dragging: the right holds a pair of worn out but still stylish rosin oxford, the left traps a black rose, its thorns have no mercy on her, the stem wet in dirt and blood.

I take the shoes right away in order to lower her burden; I dress them without socks or shoehorn to waste less time possible. The movements are mechanical and the shoelaces viciously embrace my feet.

Seeing me ready, she prepares to arrange the flower, the depression on the ring finger now filled; she tosses away the handkerchief without too much mind, revealing the figure: a book over a hammer and pen crossed.

And there I realise what is happening. I barely register other movements from the present world.  
I'm donning Randall's suit. The one he was supposed to wear when he was ready to go to Gressenheller. I- I cannot accept it, this is not my destiny. This uniform is still his.

She rearranged the rose, the petals lost in the process on the shoes and on the floor. She lifts her gaze, the eyes alive and yet distant, her lips mimic words, now breathed. «It suits you so well―she smiles, for real―your father and I are really proud of you. Make us even more happy, Randall,» she caresses my cheek, a weight now in my vision. The name is spread on the room in an echo, with no reply, but she couldn't care any less.

A shiver freeze my shoulders. Yes, Ea has always a particular affection, and devotion toward me and she was quite vocal (she told me several times) how she would've adopted me if only she had had the possibility. But this, letting her projecting Randall on me?  
_Yes_, would've said lady Dalilah,_ if this will make feel your mistress at ease._  
_Yes_, I say, _if this is temporary._ And it is.

This time she is the one accompanying me to the exit, her voice completely dedicated to Randall and his astonishing grades.

A weight now in my vision lies on the bridge of the nose, featuring the frame surrounding my eyesight. It must be Randall's other frame: he wanted a spare one at all costs so he was never seen devoid of it, whether the original one were broken or lost. But I'm sure he's still dressed with the original one: he would never dare to take it off.


End file.
